Spitting Napalm
by OzWibs
Summary: What happens when you use broken portal technology? Simple, you die, or maybe are preserved in the space between worlds. Who knows? TTW Protagonist


The Lone Courier was not unfamiliar with pain, Hell, that one word was probably the most accurate summary of his life from the point of leaving vault 101 on. Of course, that being the most accurate one didn't stop other single word descriptions form appyling nearly as well. Death was a common descriptor. Despair was another. Of course, the Lone Courier realized that life was hard, and not long after stepping foot in the wasteland for the first time, he withdrew. Retreating within his shell seemed to be the only way he could cope. Staring at the world through the scope of a high-powered rifle was its own type of pain, but it was nothing anywhere nearly as tangeble as the fire that lit through him at the moment. _Introspectiveness aside, maybe it wasn't such a good idea to try to use the transportalponder to get back to Big Mountan for repairs._

Indeed, he was in a bit of a fix. When the Transportalponder had been partially melted by a plasma blast from and Encleve soldier -In the Mojave no less- He had to attempt to get back to the Think Tank for repairs on the device. Of course, things whent wrong in the worst way they could, and his entire submarine, the USS Hoodwink was engulfed in an explosion of orange energy racing out of the device. From there, the Courier had no reason to belive he hadn't died and gone to hell. Large explosion, unable to move, existence difiined by pain, it's easy to se why the thought that way. He was, to masively understate the matter, surprised when he percived a pale green light, and regained his bearings on the floor of what had served as his home for the past three years in the wasteland. The USS Hoodwink was a true rarity of pre-war technology, a home fit for the savior of two worlds. The _Hoodwink_ had somehow been preserved, resting at the bottom of the irradiated Potomac River, and had been revived, as far as the Lone Courier could tell, by a wasteland mercenary with an unmatched degree of repair- for submarines at least.

The sub consisted of three main compartments. An armory wa the one I spent the most wakeful time in, and it held the hach to the top of the sub. There was a small kitchen/dining room combo, complete with one of the vending machines from the Sierra Madre that had been buried in the old Brotherhood of Steel bunker that served as the entrance to that damned place. The third and final compartment was something of a bedroom/office for him, with my personal terminal, several secure lockers, a safe, and various lockers and wardrobes for the various suits of armor collected during his time in the wasteland. Each room had a force field that could be activated or deactivated by a switch on the side that served as a solid door. The armory was filled to the brim, and then some, as was the kitchen. The Wanderer kept around all of the gold he carried out of the Madre with him in the safe as something of a rainy day fund, and always had the scriptures he brought out of Zion on the nightstand, in addition to having a bookshelf stuffed full of various pre-war books sitting next to the cupboard he maintained a hospital's worth of medical supplies in, despite the auto-doc resting at the foot of his queen-sized bed.

The Courier quickly picked himself up off of the ground, taking in the slight tilt the floor of the subarine had to it. Walking over to the command terminal, he activated the sonar, intending to keep it in passive mode, then switch to active if nothing could be heard. The passive sonar was enough, however. As a sound sensing device, it was more than enough to pick up the cacophony outside the _Hoodwink_. With forknowledge honed over years in the wasteland, and yet no concious thought, the Lone Courier bagan suiting and arming up, knowing that despite his not wanting to be a part in whatever was going on outside, he was probably going to be involved in it anyway. The passive sonar was going insane, telling him that a fleet of twnty-seven submarines was within a twenty foot circle direcly to the front left of the _Hoodwink_. When the airlock failed to open and spew forth raiders, assassins, or any other such form of people who wanted to end his life, he waited for the noise to die down a bit outside, and headed for the airlock , figuring that the worst that could happen would be that he would die brutally.

Jean Colbert was having a long day, with no end in sight. The springtime Familiar Summoning Ritual for the second years proved to be an extensive ordeal no matter what, but this particular class appeared to be particularly interesting. Young Miss Tabitha had summon a dragon, one that appeared to be a Rhyme Dragon, but he couldn't say without further study. The Germanian transfer student summoned a Salamander, further cementing her fire affinity. By far, the most interesting had been the summon of the Valliere scion, something that appeared to be a long metal tube, with some extra metal sticking out of the top. His warrior's intuition told him that there was something more to that metal construct than there seemed to be. As the children stopped screaming from the explosion that always accompanied Miss Valliere's spells, and settled into a stunned silence, he was proven right. The protrusion on the top had a small section of itself pop up and swing sideways, not unlike a cellar door. A figure the likes of which he'd never seen before emerged rom the hole that was produced.

The figure emerged fully, and stood atop the tube, glaring down at the students. It wore a giant suit of metal armor that ledt nothing but the head exposed, and a black mask with hoses looping from it to behind the figure's head. He -Colbert could definitely tell the figure was male at this point- wore strange black spectacles with large lenses and silver rims, and a bizzare maroon hat, one that was taller on one side, and the taller side bore a gold and black ornament. He stared down at the people, his odd glasses hiding his eyes, and the mask his mouth, working together to conceal any hint of emotion. Cutting a figure that was solidly six foot eight, with a body outclassing even the biggest of commoner soldiers Colbert had seen, the professor knew that this figure would be a threat, even without the aid of whatever it was held within his hands. The figure held the staff like the rifles the musketeer corps used, despite it having no visible firing mechanism. The staff was all varying shades of black and grey, and at least as long as the figure was tall. The staff's end had a fairly large hole in it, if Colbert had to give an estimate, he'd say it was aboult half an inch but for accuracy's sake he'd need to actually measure.

Colbert glanced back at the students, and was startled to see youg Louise clambering to her feet, her face pale, but determined.

"F-f-f-ff-familiar!" The small girl stuttered out, shrinking backwards as she did so.

"I assume you're calling out to me?" The figure let out, his voice rumbling in a deep, but loud and easy to hear baritone, despite the mak covering his mouth.

"Familiar!" Louise screeched, doubtlessly trying to assert her control over the man who had stepped out of the tube.

The man jumped down from his perch atop the tube, something dubbed the _USS Hoodwink_ if the albionian script on the side was anything to go by. As the sumommoned man advanced, his armor made quiet whirring sounds ond a somewhat loud noise of metal collideing into metal when one of his feet hit the the figure advanced on the pinkette, he slung the staff over his shoulder, stalking up with his gloved hands being his only weapons.

"If you have something you wish to say to me, do so now. If you do not begin asking your questions now, I will begin to ask some of my own." His tone of voice and pure size sent a jolt of fear down the spines of all present, along with the subcouncious gaurentee to themselves that they wouldn't like his way of asking.

Colbert took the pause after the chilling statement as an oppritunity to speak up. "Pardon me, but there is no need for violence, sir..."

The armored juggernaut turned his head to the professor. "Foxtrot," he said shortly, offering no elaboration on the matter.

 **A/N**

 **Behold, My first foray into actually writing anything (on this site at least). I got tired of having adeas float around in my head, and at the same time felt that if I was going to be hading out reviews with criticism in them that I should get some of my own work out there. That said, this story is inspired, at least in part by the work of the legendary Gabriel Blessing. Alas, I am nowhere near that level, but I appreceate anything thrown at me insofar as reviews nonetheless.**


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